The Letter
by narcotine2
Summary: "As an apparently simple doctor who is actually a skilled sniper able to kill from opposite buildings, you are indeed quite qualified to debate on the subject of false appearances." When John receive a letter inviting him to a dinner for a strange project, he wonders who the hell knows so much about him... Should he fear for his life? A fanfiction for the Sherlock Minibang.


**Author's note:** This is my very first fanfiction in English, it has been created for the Sherlock Minibang on Tumblr, celebrating the new Sherlock season, coming soon! For this work I've been paired with the PERFECT Quintessentiallywise, who did the art you can see on the cover! A big thank you for correcting my mistakes and stand my sluggishness! Anyway, I hope you will enjoy this fic as much as I enjoyed writing it! Don't forget: **only 2 days left until season 3**! :)

**The letter**

The letter arrived on a bright sunny day. Mrs. Hudson had transferred it to Dr. Watson's practice, feeling that it was something important that needed privacy, and that he may like to open it away from his wife's probing gaze.

It was a large plain envelope, made of thick paper, looking obviously expensive: the kind of envelope you would expect to receive if you were invited to a prestigious wedding. The name and address "Doctor John Hamish Watson, 221b Baker Street" were engraved on the front, and it was sealed with a patch of dark red wax.

It seemed quite official, and John spent a few hours wondering whether he should open it or not. He wondered who had sent this letter. It couldn't be Mycroft, they were comfortable with each other now, and he would have sent him a text. Even if it was something very official, the text would have been received before the letter.

He waited for the end of the day, and when his last patient left, he quickly cleaned up his office and went to his desk. He took the envelope and examined it very carefully, in a way that reminded him of his dear friend with a stir in his heart.

It was two years since Sherlock had died, ending the Moriarty case at St Bart Hospital. John had learn to cope with the loneliness that had suddenly overwhelmed him after Sherlock's death, and to bury the ache deep in his heart. Now he had a beautiful wife that he loved dearly, but there was no thrill in it, and he still missed his best friend, the one who had made him feel alive again after the war, who had shared his flat and his life with him for three years. Of course he had upset him more than once with his habits of putting human parts in the fridge, speaking at the speed of an uncontrollable train, sulking and not speaking for several days, criticizing whoever he dated, shooting the wall... But it was only part of common life, and he would have given anything to see his friend again.

Of course, he tried to hide his feelings from his wife, but she knew he often went to the cemetery and that he had developed a new friendship with Mycoft. He did not see Greg as often, for he reminded him of Sherlock's investigations, of his brilliant deductions and disdain for anyone that was not him, John. The inspector was also ill at ease with the situation and he did not know how to soothe John, whereas Mycroft had helped him getting over the pain -much more than his therapist, actually- and had made sure he would go on, not forgetting Sherlock, but with a less sour memory on his mind. He had given John an album of family pictures where Sherlock seemed a happy child, though a bit shy, already thin and tall, with sharp eyes that seemed to decipher the whole world. John could see with those pictures that Sherlock had once been a loving little boy, and that his snide and sarcastic comments, his cold superiority, were only a shell he had forged himself to escape the pain and the rejection that he felt when people were afraid of his deduction skills, calling him a freak. John was convinced that a big incident had triggered that shell, and he suspected it had something to do with his family, but Mycroft wouldn't say anything on the matter.

John was glad to see the confirmation that somewhere deep in his heart, Sherlock capable of loving someone, and he looked at those photos whenever he missed him too strongly. He sometimes spent hours in his study, the album in his lap, lost in his memories...

He had never believed all that shit about the "fake genius" thing, never even given it a second thought: he KNEW that Sherlock had never lied to him. They had lived together for more than three years and he was sure that Sherlock was not the kind of man who would plan other people's deaths, even if he liked nothing like solving cases.

When he finally snapped out of his reverie, John picked up the envelope, he unsealed it and took out a card. He opened it and as he read along, his eyes went wide, shock and bewilderment washing over him. It was a good thing that he had decided to open the letter at his practice, for his startled expression would have worried his wife. It read:

"Dear Mr Watson,

As part of our project Great Anonymous Muster for Elected ones , we convey you to a dinner held tomorrow at the Florent 39, St Martin's Lane, London WC2N 4WR, where we will discuss the false appearances that overwhelm us everyday. As an apparently simple doctor who is actually a skilled sniper able to kill from opposite buildings, you are indeed quite qualified to debate on that subject. We are hoping to see you at 7 o'clock. With our best wishes,

Joachim Isias Madley."

How did those people know about him shooting the cab driver? And who was this man, whose initials formed the name JIM? And what about this stupid program whose acronym spelled GAME? What was its aim?

John had no doubt that this organization was a mere invention and that the person who had sent this letter was not a friend... What kind of friend would send a scary letter to plan a meeting? But whoever it was, this person knew something, and John was torn between the urge to discover this person, and the threat that it may imply. But then, if he did not go, what was the author of this letter going to do? Would he (or possibly she) reveal to the police that he, Doctor John Watson, was the one who shot the cab driver during the Study in pink business? Would he tell Lestrade? John was afraid of what Lestrade would say if ever he found out. Sure, he was not going to send John to jail, he would prevent that by all means, but what was he going to think about him? Would he consider John a cold-blooded murderer? Or a vile, stone-hearted jerk, able to live with that death in the back of his mind and go along as if nothing had ever happened? John was not sure he could stand to be judged for it now that the man he had saved was no longer alive.

Doctor Watson finally left his practice, he bade good-night to Sarah and slowly walked home in the gray cold evening of a winter day in London. The letter was held tightly in his fist and he was deep in his thought, wondering what he should do. He was in the middle of his way when he decided to stop at Baker Street before joining his wife for dinner.

When he arrived in front of the black old door, he realized he didn't have his key, so he rang and waited for Mrs. Hudson to let him in. He thanked her for sending the letter to his office, and he climbed the stairs to the apartment where he had spent so many good days with Sherlock. He collapsed into his chair and sat there, musing about this bloody letter.

When he stood up an hour later, Dr. Watson had come to a decision: he would go to this dinner and see what those people wanted of him. But he would be cautious and take his army gun, just in case. You never know what's hiding behind the appearances, he thought. The most beautiful person in the world could be the most dreadful enemy, and the most common one the better of all men.

Once his mind was set, John decided to go home, and he felt a bit more relaxed. He said good-bye to Mrs. Hudson and hailed a cab. He made his excuses to his wife, making up one, for he was unwilling to talk about this matter with her. He would tell her to call the police if he discovered it was something dangerous, but there was no way he would worry her if it was useless. He also had to admit he didn't wanted her to know about him killing a man, away from the war.

He went off to bed as usual, and when he woke up the next morning, he discretely put his army gun in his bag before going to the kitchen to eat breakfast with those who now were his family. He could see that Mary had already guessed something was wrong, but she made no comment. She never did, she trusted him and knew he had his reasons for not telling her about his troubles.

He went to his practice after breakfast, and he became more and more anxious as the day went on. Really, what could be waiting for him, what was it that this person wanted of him? The same questions drifted in and out of of John's mind as he examined children, men and women, made diagnoses and signed prescriptions. At last the sun started to set and his last patient left. After cleaning his office he put on the fine tailored jacket he kept for his outings, for he knew that the Florent was a fancy restaurant and that the dress code included ties.

Once he had changed, he left and hailed a cab to take him to 39, St Martin's Lane, London WC2N 4WR. It was already dark and he wanted this business done with as soon as possible. The cab dropped him in front of the Florent, where there was a miraculously empty place, and he climbed the stairs slowly, staring around the place and mentally checking if his gun was at its place, completely hidden in his jacket. He had put on a false mustache, in case someone might recognize him, for he knew the Florent was a really well known place and he wouldn't like being asked by one of their friends why he was here without his wife.

He entered the hall and in a blink of an eye, a butler was here by his side to take his coat and ask him about the reservation name.

"I'm the doctor John Watson, he said. I think someone called Joachim Reuel, or Jim, is waiting for me.

-Well yes, there is such a person. Please follow me, Dr. Watson."

He lead him in the dining room, towards an empty table in a darkened corner. The whole room was vibrating with low conversations, as if people were waiting for something to happen. John was getting nervous and a slight shiver ran down his spine. There was only one name on the table,next to the place setting. The other placecard was blank. He sat at his place and observed the room while rapidly checking under the table and under his chair if there was anything suspicious. There wasn't. Nothing strange except the empty seat in front of him. He put his hand on his gun, sensing the reassuring shape through the fabric. It was still there.

The butler came back and handed John a menu, assuring him that his guest would soon be here. He took it and started to flip through the pages, pretending to read the menu descriptions to make his choice.

Suddenly he felt a gaze at the back of his head. He did not turn around, waiting for his observer to make the first move. Finally, whoever it was took a step forward.

"John." a voice softly said. It was a deep, low voice, a voice that John knew, but it couldn't be THAT voice. He swiftly turned around.

"Sh-Sherlock? No... That can't be... No... Sherlock's dead..." As he spoke, John's voice became firmer, his eyes cold as steel. He stood up, never once looking away from the tall figure. Those eyes... Those lips... Those curls... Everything was perfect as ever in this face. But yet it couldn't be THAT face. Sherlock was dead, and John knew it. He felt a terrible anger at the thought that someone had made him come to show him this. Someone dressed as Sherlock. A Sherlock lookalike. So he did the only thing that could relieve his anger. He hit the double. A fine punch aiming at the jaw, worthy of any boxing champion.

The room fell immediately silent as the double tumbled down, crashing on the floor. He straightened up, leaning on his elbows. He looked bewildered, and there was a hint of fear in his eyes.

"John... he trailed off. I knew you had bad days, but this is not supposed to be one..."

John stared at the man. He stared at his blue-gray eyes, those unique, amazing eyes, and suddenly he knew. As amazing, as unbelievable as it was, Sherlock, his friend Sherlock, the man he had mourned for two years, was alive.

"I don't care how you faked it, Sherlock. I want to know why", he hissed as he bent forward and reached out, grabbing Sherlock's hand to help him get on his feet. He then hugged him tightly, still whispering in his ear: "Why did you do that Sherlock? Why did you wait for three years to reappear? Why didn't you let me know?"

Their observers, apparently satisfied by the scene, returned to their meal. John let go of Sherlock and took a step back take in his friend's appearance. He was as in his memories, tall and strangely beautiful, though he seemed to have become even slimmer than before. His gaze also seemed a bit more tortured, as if a conflict had taken place in his mind during those years of absence.

"I'll tell you everything you want to know John, I promise, Sherlock finally answered. But first we could order, shall we?"

John nodded. He could still feel his anger boiling in his heart, but realization was slowly overtaking it. Sherlock was back. His best friend was back, and apparently for good. They sat and to John's surprise Sherlock ordered something for himself when the waiter came.

They ate slowly, taking their time, ceaselessly gazing at each other to make sure this was real, progressively stepping back in their world, the private world they had shared two years ago that had disappeared with Sherlock, where everything seemed stimulating and obvious at the same time. Sherlock told him about Jim and his plot, about the fact that everyone he cared about would have died if he had not faked his death. About the fact that he could not, never ever, let John die, and that he had lied to make it easier for him to believe the newspaper and get over a traitor's death. It seemed John would have to rediscover a brand new Sherlock, a sensitive one who openly cared about people, tried to protect them, and most of all, a new Sherlock who was actually EATING.

When they left the Florent more than three hours after, everyone was gone, the room had been cleared and they hadn't payed any attention, obsessed with each other. They went to the nearest park and settled on a bench, silently watching the moon, side by side. They were content to have recovered each other, as if the last part of themselves was now at it's right place. Years afterward, they would think of this night as the beginning of their new friendship, more intimate than before, but also less innocent, changed by this gap of two years apart. But this night it was good to feel alive, they thought, and no matter what would happen next, they both felt at peace, appeased for the first time since a long time.


End file.
